


Gonna go to babylon and get me some whiskey

by rosekay



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Het and Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser's away.  Things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gonna go to babylon and get me some whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2007, which was apparently a time of a lot of Regina Spektor for me.

The way Ray sees it, there are a few constants in a guy's life, and for the sake of that guy's sanity, they shouldn't change.

For him, it goes something like this:

One. Fraser licks weird things, _not Ray._ Hell, Dief is more discriminating over what goes in his mouth (donuts, and sometimes if he's feeling peckish, pizza). Either way, Ray does not lick things (well he makes exceptions, but this is _not_ the good kind of exception).

Two. He has a dick, and balls, and skinny hips. Mostly the dick. He likes his dick. It hangs a little to the right, but it does its job and more. Ray _loves_ his dick. It should always be with him. It should never _be missing._

Three. Fraser, and weird shit. They go together like - two things that go together really well. Ray has even developed some sort of - whatever that dog experiment was - response to the uniform. Blob of red. Check. Hat. Check. Funky pants. Check. Weird shit. Check. It's actually pretty simple, so it's not like it's some kinda _difficulty_ for the world to just follow along. When Fraser leaves town, he takes the weird shit with him, and Ray just has to deal with the normal run of perps, or as normal as they get in Chicago anyway.

Except the cup - chalice - whatever it is - looked insanely drinkable. He could smell it standing twenty feet away, the gun forgotten in his hands, the greater scent of incense overpowered. The crazy women backed up as he approached, bare feet and slitted eyes, but he didn't notice them. It was so strong he could practically taste it, and then he _was_ tasting it, the spark of heat arcing from its passage down his throat straight down his belly, filtering through all his limbs till he was wobbling in place. That was the last thing he remembered for awhile.

Yeah, and now he's just got Frannie staring at him like he's going to take her head off, one hand down his pants, and a crowd of curious cops at the door. Fraser is over the border on business with a jumpy Thatcher, and this is officially some _weird shit._ Thanks a lot, world. Thanks a whole. fucking. lot.

*

Standing up for the first time is an adventure. He wobbles like a freaking newborn foal before regaining his balance, which is completely _off_. If there's one thing he's ever depended on, it's knowing his body. He's a skinny guy who doesn't bulk up. He should know - he tried hard enough back in high school. He can wring out a couple knockout punches that'll take teeth with them, but for him, it's mostly learning how to duck and weave, reading his own responses. Dancing always came easily, even with a partner. Ray always knows where to move, where his _body's_ moving.

Except now he feels - weird, shaken up, his feet clumsy under him and legs that are just enough shorter to throw him off. He's always been a little self conscious about his hips, stupidly narrow, all bone and packed muscle that made his shoulders look too wide and brought out his chicken legs. Now it's all wrapped in softer flesh he's never had before, a curving band of muscle that leads him straight to the emptiness between his legs, a gaping thing, absence making his thighs twitch.

"Ray?"

Frannie sounds almost scared, but she seems to collect herself as soon as he looks up, a bright smile. Reliable Frannie.

"You feeling all right?" A million times gentler than usual it seems.

His head clears a little, and he starts to take notice of their surroundings. Bland, gray walls, faces jostling at the little window at the door, and oh yeah, the _huge freaking mirrored wall._

"What the hell're we doing in an interrogation room?"

Frannie looks almost embarrassed for a second, her cheeks flushing and hands twisting.

"Uh, well, after you phased out, " _passed out?_ "we had to bring all of those crazy ladies in, so the Lieu thought I would be the best guy, well not _guy_ I guess, to deal with uh, female issues!"

Christ, she makes it sound like he spontaneously got on the rag or something, which, yeah, not going there. Brain not ready. So not ready.

He scrubs his face with one hand. It's largely unchanged, fingers a little narrower, a little shorter maybe. His wrist's just as bony and weird as before, but now the bracelet's sliding down almost over the curve of his thumb. Ray shakes his hand a little, watching it jingle dangerously close to slipping off. Jesus.

When he looks up, Frannie's got the kinda expression people get when they're watching some guy about to launch himself off a building in a clown suit - he's had personal experience with this expression, and it ain't pretty.

"How long I been out?"

His hand goes to his throat on instinct, because hell, that was just _wrong._ He's never had one of those commanding, gravel voices to begin with, but Ray knows how to put a bite in it, and this, this thready, husky thing - he can't imagine injecting anything sharp into it. Even the vibration feels wrong, his neck stretched out and sore.

Frannie looks at him nervously.

"Just three hours or so, maybe four. Not long at all, Ray."

She looks like she's about to wring her hands. There's a banging sound from the direction of the door, and a muffled jeer that's answered with more laughter. Frannie promptly marches over to the door, and hurls it open, sending a bunch of blues scattering back into the hallway. He can't see her face from here, but Ray can imagine it's her _I can debone a chicken in three minutes - imagine how long it's gonna take to do_ you _asshole_ expression, because the door clears in about three seconds. Frannie can be freaking scary when she wants to be. Nothing like a pissed off chick in heels with an agenda. He should know.

When she comes back, it's to steady him, and he's almost surprised at the gentle touch. Frannie usually acts exactly how he would expect his little sister to act - dismissive and annoying. When Fraser's around, dismissive always wins out.

And well Fraser, him and Fraser, Frannie and Fraser, that's a whole nother can of worms. It isn't like Fraser just tripped onto his dick in the middle of the police station.

For months, Ray just thought his signals were just whacked, not that his track record is all that great anyway, especially since he had to take on Vecchio's baggage, not to mention the lingering memory of that schnoz. But hell, he spent almost every waking moment with Fraser. He was starting to get the idea that even Dief caught on by then. There wasn't much left for him to do outside of showing his belly and telling Fraser to _lick_ him, which actually sounded suspiciously like a Dief thing to think. Jesus, he was spending too much time with the wolf.

The end came, as it often did with drawn out things, unexpectedly. Because the thing with Fraser is, that you can push and push and push with the guy, and he'll just look back at you with those big eyes and that "what? me?" expression, and by then you're tearing your hair out on the inside and scaring your turtle, which, yeah, your _turtle_ \- that's a whole new level of fucked up. But when Fraser chooses to clue in, he moves _fast._ You're still in mid push, and he's already shoved you so far back, you're too busy being blindingly hard to even notice you're up against the wall.

Ray has never been religious. His dad worships cars. His mom makes Catholic motions every once in awhile, but mostly, she just likes to feed people. Now he has to wonder though - Mary's face, smooth and disapproving, looking scarily like Stella in his mind. _Hey you, yeah you, fag, say goodbye to your dick._

He squints at Frannie, who's staring at him with patience that he doesn't expect from her. Sometimes he wonders if Frannie's just faking the whole dumb Italian act. Occasionally, she freaks him out with the random things that come out of her mouth, and he was living in the mild fear that she was going to clue in, flip out, and come after him with one of her terrifying heeled shoes, things which should be officially registered as deadly weapons.

Frannie just looks concerned though. In fact, she looks like she's about to _coo,_ which is somehow even worse.

"Hey, hey, Ray, you're gonna be ok, huh? We're like," her eyes shine for a second, "sisters now."

He strips his wrist out of hers, backing up. "Whoa whoa whoa, Frannie. We are _not_ sisters. I'm not even your real brother! We are not, Jesus, yeah just - don't - ok?"

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever, Ray. Anyway, the Lieu wants to see you. Come on."

He slouches in his jeans. They hang low on him, too big, and his briefs are kind of - chafing - down there. He kind of just wants to be unconscious again. The door suddenly seems to loom, which is ridiculous. He's done some of his best work in rooms like these. Ray makes them shake. Ray knocks them down. Ray can deal with a bunch of assholes in a hallway. He pissed himself in a bank once. Shouldn't it be easier by now? Yeah, maybe if he still had his _dick._

Frannie silences everyone with a glare as they step out, but he can still hear the giggles and feel the stares.

They don't get to Welsh's office nearly soon enough. Ray notices the stain low on his T-shirt as they cross the bullpen. For a second, it looks like blood, but he knows he's not injured. He rucks it up a little, sniffing. It stinks of the thick wine the crazy women were using in their fucking crazy ritual, and not even the good drinking part, but the slops they tossed at him when he was closing in. Great, he's a chick _and_ smells like a wino.

Welsh looks up from his desk, a little haggard.

"Oh, Jesus."

Ray glares and stabs a finger in his direction.

" _You_ don't get to freak out. _You_ don't gotta _rack._ "

Welsh seems to consider this seriously for a second. Finally, he nods.

"Fair enough. Well, what do you want to do?"

 _Do?_ Do? Is that even a _question_? His eyes must be bugging, because Frannie excuses herself and escapes.

Welsh sighs, shifting in his seat.

"You're on paid leave, I guess, until we figure this out."

Ray sputters a little. Because come to think of it, he's never wanted to fire a gun and maybe bash a guy's head into a car more in his _life_ than right this very moment. Off duty, fuck if he's going to sit around staring at his tits while the freaking Duck Brothers or people even dumber than Dewey are put in charge of - of whatever the fuck this is.

Welsh stares him down.

"Go home, Vecchio," he sounds a little nicer, like a dad or something. It weirds Ray out enough that he shuts up his mental rant.

He wants - he wants -

Welsh looks up again, with an air of finality.

"Go _home._ "

Well, fuck.

*

By the time he pulls up to his apartment, it's sounding like not such a bad idea. His landlady gives him a weird stare when he goes up the stairs, but hey, he's been bringing Fraser around for awhile now. She's seen weirder.

His apartment even _smells_ different now, or more likely, _he's_ smelling different. If he's forced to catalogue, it's all the same guy stink like always - clothes that need a sniff test or two, some stale food, everything else that's thrown around. Yeah, that's it, his brain wants to call them _guy_ smells now, when they're _Ray_ smells. Shut up, brain.

He shucks off his jeans, and they pool at his ankles, tripping him up, his balance still off. He doesn't like this, not knowing exactly where everything's going to go. The weird thing is, it's still his body - he can feel all the old telltale sores of this gunshot or that old bruise, weaker muscle here, misstep there - the tattoo's still gleaming from his arm - it's just like everything's _shifted_ one step over, and he's stumbling to line it all back right with every step. Fucking annoying, is what it is.

The briefs fit badly, but he's almost afraid to take them off, white and somehow comforting against skin that still looks the same, stretched over bones that arch and curve and shape instead of shooting straight down his legs.

"You fucking coward," he tells himself, and yanks them off, like a bandaid, catching on his thighs.

It's not much, sparse, dark hair wisping over it, tiny bits glinting all the way up his belly. The bit of pink he can see actually makes him blush, and the sudden current of air into the tenderness isn't exactly helping

He tosses the jeans and briefs both into his pile angrily, and pads the rest of the way into the bathroom, the tiles cold under his feet, long and narrow like always, only the hair missing. His t-shirt scrapes against his nipples going off, and he shivers, arms caught in the tangle of cotton and hair above his head.

When Ray finally wrestles it off, he begins to inspect himself in his old mirror. He shivers, watching his skin, new skin, goose pimple, so he leans over and switches on the water, letting it splash against his fingers until it warms, and yanks the knob over to spray, steaming up the room.

The shift of skin and flesh in the mirror catches his eye. It's kinda hard to bypass the fact that he now has _breasts_ , but they actually feel weirder than they look, a new sensitivity he's never had before, a new weakness, throwing off the way he walks and moves. In the mirror, they're well, they're _nice._

Ray's never gone for the huge tits. He figures more than a handful's just a waste, and if it's a little freaky that his own body currently fits right into his fantasies, well, yeah. Shut up, brain. He cups them carefully, jerking a little at how cold his hands are. They're pale, shallow scoops of flesh standing out from his chest, dusky nipples hardening under his fingers, the curve of them throwing shadows onto the angles of his ribs. His waist dips in alarmingly. He's skinny as a guy, he knows, but he looks almost a little unhealthy now, all ropy muscle laid over unexpected softness, the little failings of age and the unforgiving cut of bone where he expects more give.

He stares until the mirror fogs up his reflection into a vague female shape that's just flesh and curves. It freaks him out, so he flicks the curtain open and steps in.

The shower's good. He even studiously ignores the tingling between his legs when he brushes low on his belly with the soap, the feel of the warm water sliding down there, scrubs himself with his old towels afterwards until his skin's pink between the heat of the shower and the rough treatment. He's soft in weird places, the little dip between his collarbones, and his armpits, light wisps of hair slipping against the skin of his upper ribs when they're at his sides, and the little patches of skin where his pubes fade away, right at his hips and thighs. He strokes tentatively, and bites his lip.

"You're being an idiot," Ray tells himself quietly. _Yeah, and talking to yourself, you fucktard._

He pulls on one of his old t-shirts, worn in patches. It hangs until it skims his thighs, tented up by his breasts, nipples standing out in the colder air outside the bathroom, and following the widening of his hips.

It's still early in the afternoon, so there's nothing to watch on TV. Just talking heads. Ray feels like he should have a bowl of bonbons or something. Fucking ridiculous.

His hand wanders between his legs almost before he notices (liar.) The first brush is just weird, raw and unexpected touch, but he gasps, arches his hips off the couch a little. He's dry at first, skin catching as he slides a finger down the length of himself, but he's slicker, breath coming fast, by the time he's stroking his opening, little pink slit when he looks. _Jesus_ , that's wrong.

If Ray knows anything, he knows cunts, well mostly Stella's, but he can call himself an expert without a lot of a backtracking. He knows what to do with his mouth, his fingers, how to make a woman make those stupid girly sounds, snap her thighs around his head until she's bitter sour and so sweet in his mouth. Well, one of those things is out, but his hands work just fine, narrower, less wide, maybe a little more articulate, old calluses still there, still catching in just the right places.

He throws his head back on the couch, cushion scratching at the back of his neck, levering his thighs up and together, fingers sliding between them.

He's straining up, eyes squeezed shut when his fingers finally find the right place, and he lets out a moan, the warmth spreading from his belly, little shudders he can still feel against his hand. Squeezing his thighs together, he manages to wring another aftershock out of himself before he collapses back on the couch, one leg hanging almost to the floor, the T-shirt rucked up, his red cunt throbbing between his legs, damp and open.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ."

*

Ray finally heaves himself off the couch, sweat at the back his necks, under his arms, his _toes_ it feels like. His legs are rubbery, alien things that are somehow still moving him ahead over the floor, thighs damp with his own scent when he goes, the air making him shiver again.

The beer's been in the fridge too long, flavor leeched out by the chill, but he doesn't care chugging it down, coolness in his throat, warmth in his belly.

He's jonesing for a fight by the time he wrestles his smallest pair of briefs on, the old energy burning through his limbs. He hasn't lost too much muscle considering, maybe a little reach and breadth in his shoulders, but he was always wiry, not bulky, and even with breasts and hips, he's far from curvy. His toes curl on the floor, and Ray thinks he's figuring out how to move in this body, with its lower center of gravity, everything springing out from there. He might be a little faster, less weight in just the right places.

The boobs really have to go though, he discovers. They're not big, but they're still counterweights when he moves too quickly, throwing him off. And no way Ray Kowalski's putting on a fucking bra.

An hour of messing around with his old tape gives them a little support. They hurt when he just flattens them straight, distracting, and hell, he's not trying to crossdress. Well, crossdress back into what he really is, which is fucking confusing, and completely not worth it, since he's not even getting his dick back in the deal. He figures out how to tape the sides, underneath, so they're steady against his chest, held firmly in place. When he throws on one of his old boxing tanks, loose around the pits, hanging huge on him now, he can still see the white bandaging beneath, but with his messy hair, he looks more dangerous than ridiculous, so he decides it doesn't really matter.

He doesn't go to his usual place, because if there's one thing (and there's more than one) that Ray's not in the mood for, it's dumbass explanations.

Smell's the same though, and the bag looks ready to take whatever he's got, so he finishes wrapping his hands, and Jesus, they really are a lot smaller now, aren't they? Different angle, different power to his fist. He needs to go faster, lean more, just to get the right hit, the right punch.

The first impact is endlessly satisfying, and now he's back in his game, fuck the breasts and the cunt and everything else, on the balls of his feet, light and quick, ready for it. He measures his breath, goes in again, zipping out, and in again. The dull _pop pop_ of every blow's more comforting than Welsh's measured orders or Frannie's nervous babbling.

He's favoring his right side, and he's breathless after a few gos, so he takes a break, heaving breaths, hands on his thighs. The tape's holding up well, but he's sweating under it now, and the scritch of material against overheated skin is anything but comfortable. When he looks up, there's a guy watching him, arms folded, leaning against the wall.

Ray cocks an eyebrow, gives him his best _yeah, what're you looking at, asshole?_ glare.

The guy just grins, like he's not scared of Ray at all. You _should_ be, prick.

He sucks down some water from his bottle, and goes back to the bag, twice as as furious as when he first started, not really knowing why. He can tell the guy doesn't move, dark eyes burning into the back of his neck as he lands blow after blow, jarring his arms. He's sweating like a pig again after his next set, and the freaking guy is _still there._

Ray crosses the space between them, barely twenty feet. He's practically in the guy's face before he really picks up on how much height he's lost. It's not much, couple inches - he's still tall for a woman, maybe Stella's height, but up against the prick, who's maybe what Ray used to be, a little taller, it seems like a mile. It just pisses him off even more.

"You gonna just stand there?"

He still hates his voice, trying to lower it a little.

The guy keeps smirking, like he doesn't even care, and Ray has a handful of shirt in his hands on instinct before he gets around to thinking.

"You wanna say something, _asshole_?"

This time, the guy actually laughs at him, a gurgling deep thing, and Ray's vision goes white for a second.

In retrospect, he was really telegraphing with the haul back, but the guy apparently wasn't paying attention, because Ray's fist is buried in his cheek before he even stops laughing.

His knuckles hurt, but he's used to it and just shakes his hand out, feeling a little shocky and a lot pumped up, bouncing on his feet already.

The guy works his jaw, brows knitting, and Jesus, he's not massive, but he's got meathooks for arms, some juicer who probably hangs out here every day. His eyes are dark, shoulders even broader when he hunches over.

"Fucking _bitch_ ," said with all the venom that Ray's feeling right now.

He drags a hand into Ray's shirt, hauling him first closer and then clean into the wall with enough force to set his head spinning. His right arm, his good arm, is trapped behind him, pushed against the wall with bruising pressure, his shirt knocked out of place. The guy smells like sweat and oil up close, caging Ray into the wall, his stubble scraping Ray's cheek.

He struggles, trying to kick out his legs, but the guy just shoves a leg between his, another hand slamming into the wall next to Ray's cheek. He leans close.

"Liked watching your tits move, lady." The leg between his moves up, hard with muscle, till it's pressed up against his crotch.

Ray hocks up nice, twists, and spits in the guy's face.

It seems to take him off guard, because he backs off to wipe it off, but he's quick enough to catch Ray's incoming fist this time, easily - too easily. And then Ray's being swung into the ground, hard enough to jar his head. He's used to being lighter, relying on speed and sucker punches, but this is a little terrifying, how he can just be caught and tossed around. And where the hell is everyone else? Quiet time, before 5 pm and the after work crowd, but he figures someone should be watching, fuckers. Not like Ray needs the help, because he's going to pound this asshole's face into the ground one way or another.

He scrabbles for where his gym bag is, blue and beat up in the corner of the room. The guy actually has the balls to go for his leg, one hand closing on Ray's lower thigh, dragging him back, but he's already got a hold on what he needs. _Going down, buddy._

" _Chicago PD!_ "

The look on the guy's face is worth the bruises he knows he's gonna have in the morning. Ray's an old hand with scaring the shit out of perps, knows the guy's not going to be looking at the gender on his badge.

When the guy doesn't move, he cocks the gun deliberately, nice, echoing click, and yeah, _now_ everyone's staring.

"Get down, you prick."

The guy does.

Ray leans in close. "You know what you get for assaulting an officer?"

He's tired, sweaty, sore from being slammed around, his breasts feeling tender, out of place - hell, his whole body just generally out of whack. This shithead's going down if it's the last thing Ray does.

The guy's shaking his head, looking scared for the first time.

Yeah, Ray thinks viciously, yeah you should be.

*

Welsh looks surprised when he turns up the next morning, in jeans slung low with the bottoms rolled up, a borrowed pair of sneakers, and a new holster.

"I'm done with my leave."

Welsh seems to take a moment, maybe asking for patience or something. I need it more than you, Ray grinds out in his head.

"Vecchio," Welsh finally sighs. "You realize it's been less than twenty four hours, right?"

"Yeah?" he challenges. "And how far have Huey and Dewey gotten?"

Welsh actually looks a little abashed at that. Ray grinds his teeth.

"Ok," he amends, "point taken."

Ray aggressively rolls his shoulders, and goes to his desk, his waiting caseload.

Everyone in the station seems a bit wary of him, but he's glad he doesn't have to talk to anyone.

It's a good day.

He rams a purse snatcher up against a wall with maybe a little more force than necessary, but the guy's shaking in his boots and talking about dykes by the time Ray Mirandas him, so he calls it a victory.

There's some fuckwit Italian in interrogation who spits at him, "Look, lady, I know Ray Vecchio, and _you_ are _not_ Ray Vecchio. He doesn't have a fucking rack, for one."

Ray ends up kicking him in the head. Welsh wisely looks the other way.

He's still itchy between his shoulder blades, between his breasts, between his legs, like there's just energy crawling all over him.

Ray's out of sync, is what. He got used to working with Fraser and his freaking weird caribou stories, got used to Dief nosing at him for donuts, and Jesus, he doesn't want to sound whiny, but he _needs_ Fraser to be here right now, armed with some retarded explanation for why his dick is gone that has too many syllables and not enough sense.

Because Ray's luck is Ray's luck, The Stella is the one who shows up at the station near the end of the day, looking gorgeous as ever, not a hair out of place, slender calves and narrow waist in one of her expensive suits, little heels clickclicking their way down the hallway.

She stares at him, " _Ray_?"

There are files in her hand, probably the Tandy case, but he's suddenly more self conscious than he's been since the thing happened. Was it really just a day ago?

"Hey, Stell."

And God, he keeps forgetting how freaking weird his _voice_ is now, closer to Stella's then his own.

Actually come to think of it, looking at the two of them in the reflection of the one of the interrogation room windows, almost of a height now, blonde and slim, it's more than the voice. They look like sisters, which - Jesus - Ray doesn't even want to think about it. Shut up, brain.

Stella looks like the same thought could have been crossing her mind, because she opens her mouth and then closes it again without saying anything, a rarity for lawyers in general, and Stella specifically.

He snatches the files out of her hands with a murmured _thanks_ and takes off, her eyes trained on him from behind.

"Ray!"

She still looks lost.

"Don't ask," he throws over his shoulder.

There's a message waiting for him from Welsh. Thatcher got back in the morning, but Fraser was still across the border, some personal business in the Great White North. Great. Fucking great.

Ray thinks of his careful hands, dark hair at the nape of his neck, his _cock_ , and has to cross his legs, cheeks still flushed.

Dewey gives him a weird look passing his desk.

Ray tries his best to convey the message, _you talk to me and you_ die.

*

"Miss, er, Mr, er,"

Turnbull looks like his brain's about to leak out of his ears, and Ray takes pity with a sigh.

"Detective. You can call me Detective, Turnbull."

The relief that goes over the Mountie's face looks almost illegal. Ray snatches his hand back from the suddenly tight grasp.

"Yes, yes, Detective Vecchio, would you like some fondue while you're waiting? I'm almost finished."

There's a look of blissful pride on Turnbull's face, and Ray takes the time to notice that he's wearing oven mitts.

"Detective?"

"Just, when's Fraser due back, huh?"

"Oh, very soon. We just received the call. Would you like to wait in the main room? Perhaps the kitchen? My mother always said that a good - "

Ray cuts him off quickly. "Uh, no, I'll just wait in his office, ok?"

He practically runs up the stairs.

Fraser's dinky little room is just as depressing as it always is, but at least the bed's comfortable. He doesn't realize how tired he is until his head's on the pillow, one leg still hanging off the edge.

He dreams that he's wearing a dress, one of Stella's, that she's got the skirt of it flipped up, and two fingers in him, humming _RayRayRay_ as he shudders against her, their breasts pushed together, pale pale skin and blonde hair mingled.

Fraser stands beside them, and he says, "Thank God, Ray."

"What?" Stella's gone now, but Ray still feels the soreness of her touch inside, her taste in his mouth.

"Thank God, Ray," Fraser's in his suit, perfectly calm.

Then he opens his eyes, and Fraser's _there._

Except it's - mountain man Fraser or something. The uniform's nowhere to be seen, just one of his flannels and jeans that look beat to hell and back. He's unshaven, stubble darkening his normally clean jaw line, smelling of sweat and musk and something dark. Whatever it is, it sends a streak of heat straight to Ray's belly, the fire of it waking him from his muzzy state.

"Thank God, Ray," Fraser says, for the first - third - time? His voice seems deeper than it ever was, and his brows are creased.

"Hey," Ray says, gently, automatically, forgetting about how much he hates his voice.

"When they," now Fraser looks almost angry, "they said something happened to you, and I was afraid. I should never have left, I mean. It seems that every time I return - "

\- there's a new Ray Vecchio, Ray fills for himself. He laughs, unashamed at how feminine it sounds for the first time, dragging Fraser's cheek down to him, the stubble, so unfamiliar, rough against his hands.

"Nothing to worry about, buddy. Just some crazy ladies and freaky wine."

"Well," says Fraser, remarkably calm. Then his eyes seem to darken, and he covers Ray hand with his own, pinning it to his own cheek.

The kiss is fierce, Fraser when he's bent on something, when he's agitated, tongue in Ray's mouth, and other hand tangled in his hair, drawing the breath right out of him like Fraser's a drowning man.

"What happened?"

Fraser actually, absurdly, looks a little bit _tanned_ , his normally milk pale skin burnt gold from fierce sun, hair in disarray, a weird scent about him, bitter earth and thick musk, as if he carried the wild all the way back with him, through smoke and city and concrete.

He doesn't answer, well, not a straight answer anyway, but this is Fraser after all. He just kisses Ray again, gently this time, almost chaste.

"I missed you," he says simply, but there's a deeper rumble to it that shakes Ray, _need_ there. Need on Fraser's always a little intense, like being punched out by an emotion, because the guy keeps everything so buttoned in. Every time Ray sees it in his eyes, he feels like there's _years_ worth of shit there, years of things Fraser always wanted and just shut up about, years of things he watched from afar. The need is usually followed by the hunger and yeah, yeah, Ray can definitely get with that.

Fraser's fingers are at his fly, working deftly, and then his jeans are being dragged down his thighs. He helps the process along, wriggling while keeping Fraser's head in for a kiss, scent of sweaty hair in his nose.

Fraser practically rips the denim from his feet, and Ray laughs into a gasp, as one hand goes up his thigh, the bristle of hair there - wasn't like he was going to shave - all the way up, until it's skating at the edge of the briefs. And Christ, he's already damp there, he can feel it, the familiar heat, because Fraser's already pushing the briefs to one side, dragging them till they cut against skin. He heaves Ray's legs over his hips, blunt pressure nudging there, just there, hard - God, when had Fraser even gotten his pants down? He doesn't care; he's wet all over again.

Ray almost bites Fraser's lip at the burning stretch of it, sharp little pain, trying to spread his legs. He notices there's a tan line on Fraser's neck, where the shirt must have covered him from the snow glare or whatever, and a smudge of dirt just under his ear. He bends to lick it, moaning stupidly, because he can imagine Fraser bent over his work, Fraser out in the sun, breathing in the air, Fraser, God, Fraser punching deep in him, a stretching cling that has Ray clutching at his shoulders, still clothed, his fingers pressing deep into the cloth.

"Fuck," he says, voice tiny and stupid, a girl's voice. Fraser just slings his legs up higher, and there it is, the need again, bursting out. Ray wonders what happened up there, just a few days - seems like ages, but then Fraser grunts, goes deep, hard and fast, mouth at Ray's throat, devouring, and he can barely string words together, much less think about everything that's fucked up in Fraser's pretty head. _A book's worth._

It hurts, weird static burn, but he's wet, wet at just the _thought_ , and Fraser pushes him down, wraps him close. Then he's coming, crying out, sloppy and open, fingers wandering down to the sweet heat between their bodies, the damp of skin and motion and Fraser's cock, his strong hips, still going, the shudders of Ray's body taking him in, in and in.

"Ray," Fraser murmurs against his skin. "RayRayRay." Like a beat, like Stella in his dream, and not at all like her. It's intoxicating. He feels a long slow groan roll its way out of Fraser's body, shaking him, and then there's the bitter wet between them, the shudder of relief.

Ray turns his head into the sweat damp sheets, pleasantly crushed there, breath coming hard like he's never going to breathe again. His jaw, his cheek, feels scraped raw by Fraser's unusual stubble, and the pink flesh between his legs - he can't even think, remembering the little slit of it he saw, imagining it opening for Fraser, for -

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Ray. I was - it's just - I needed - "

Fraser looks horrified, like he's done something _wrong_. Ray wants to tell him, no no no, come back, you idiot. Come back so you can do it again, but he's still breathless, nipples tingling, sweet raw damp between his legs. He doesn't know what happened up there, and he doesn't care, because this is what Fraser needs, and it's good, so good.

"Fraser," he manages. "Fraser, kiss me."

Then Fraser seems to get it, and he bends down, first a kiss to Ray's lips, soft scrape of dark hair, then his chin, and down his throat. He wrestles Ray's t-shirt over Ray's head, tangling his arms, sharp teeth at Ray's nipples until he arches.

Then his arms are coming up around Ray's thighs, and he's going up and up. Holy shit, Fraser's practically _carrying_ him, until they stumble off the bed, the scant feet to the opposite wall, _against_ the wall, Fraser holding him up so easily, breathless murmurs, his mouth down the valley of Ray's breasts, to his belly, stubble tickling until he giggles, fucking _giggles._

But by then, Fraser's breathing against his clit, the fucked open tenderness between his legs, and he's too worked up to be ashamed. He struggles, whines for it, and Fraser's more than up to the next part. Patient breath after patient breath, then the first swipe of tongue that has Ray practically banging his head against the wall. He can feel the damp seeping out, not just his own, but Fraser's, and it occurs to him that Fraser, Fraser is licking up his own bitterness, nosing between Ray's thighs. The thought alone almost sends him over the edge, but Fraser doesn't let him go, hands branding themselves into his legs, holding him open.

When he comes, it's a slow burst that starts low and rolls out, rough scratch of Fraser's tongue, lazy and assured.

He falls forward, sweat stinging everywhere, the waves of it still shuddering through every muscle. It's like an alien world discovered, and he's freaking _high_ on it, on Fraser's tongue and Fraser's smell, dark and masculine.

He's lowered sort of slowly, until they're both tumbled against the wall.

"What happened?" he asks again. _What brought this on?_ Not that I'm complaining. Jesus, no.

Fraser smiles at him, a beautiful, light thing. "I don't think it matters, Ray. Just some old business. I'm glad to be back."

Back.

Ray grins, probably dopey and stupid looking, but he doesn't care, too tired. This Fraser looks like a wild thing, with his almost beard and his ruffled appearance, but he's so _Fraser_ at the same time that it almost hurts. The pain inside, the hot spots still thrumming all along his body, it's good, it's Fraser. Fuck everything else.

"Ray? Do they know what - "

He cuts him off with a kiss, rough, still high, like anything can happen, certain Welsh will call any second that Dewey stumbled on the secret through dumb luck or Frannie finally confused one of the women into confessing everything.

"Doesn't matter," he says, low, almost himself again.

 _You're back._


End file.
